


Strive to Be Alive

by orphan_account



Series: Strive To Be Alive [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bahorel is all kinds of awesome, Combeferre is a sweetie, F/M, M/M, Romance, Terminal Illnesses, i did a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:09:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You shouldn't have to strive to be alive.</p><p>That's what Grantaire tells himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strive to Be Alive

**Author's Note:**

> whoops sorry

"Do you want to call anyone, sir?" The doctor's voice is all smooth and clinical sympathy, and he stands a couple of feet away, his long white coat almost brushing his ankles. The room is too white, it blinds me, and the glaring lights bounce off each surface. The bed on which I am laying is uncomfortable, harsh cotton and thin sheets. Medical equipment stands off to the side, heart monitors, and a drip that winds its way into the needle in my arm. My chest is bare and sticky with the glue they used to attach the electrodes to the surface of my chest above my heart. The pants I am wearing are paint stained, the nurse who ushered me in looked disapprovingly at the lack of hygiene, but I didn't care so I brushed her off. The doctor repeats the question, even though I heard him the first time. 

 

"No, I do not have anyone I wish to call," I say softly, who would have to call? Apart from Eponine and the Les Amis, there is nobody. I don't want to trouble the latter with the news that my miserable life is ending. Rubbing one of my calloused hands over my face, and I wish, not for the first time that those callouses were on my heart instead. I feel like the only spot of darkness in the room, my tan skin and black hair contrasting violently with the overwhelming whiteness of the room. My doctor hands me a thick pack of papers, telling me to come into treatment in three months time. "Take it easy," he advises before he leaves, and I feel nauseous. The doctor starts towards me, anxiety on his face, but I wave him off. He leaves, and I am left alone with my traitorous thoughts. In lieu of something to do, I open up the pack of papers and sift through them; they're all pamphlets on how to take care of yourself when you have severe coronary heart disease. They all have beautiful smiling men and women on the front, eating, sleeping and exercising, they're also obscenely cheery and they might as well be saying _hey! You're going to die anyway, so here's a colourful pamphlet for you while you wait!_ For all the good they'll do me. 

 

The nurse from the start enters, hands me a flannel, and with practiced ease, pulls out my drip and the needle attached to my arm. "You're free to go," she says brusquely, although I can see a glint of sympathy in her eye, she doesn't show it in her actions. The nurse bustles out, leaving me alone again. I dump the pamphlets in the bin, they're useless anyway. I swab the flannel distractedly over my chest, and then pull on my green striped shirt, and pull my maroon beanie down of my unruly curls. Falling back down on the bed, I feel myself begin to panic, breath sawing in my throat, and I shove my head down between my knees. 

 

I'm actually going to die. 

 

I mean, I thought about doing the deed so many times before, even tied the noose, or brought out the pills. I'd never had the guts to do it before, even on the blackest nights, when life was unbearable. I'd always hated myself for not being brave enough to do it, to end this pathetic existence, but something had always stopped me. It seems that fate has a sense of irony. Here I am, dying naturally, instead of poisoning myself with alcohol or pills.

 

My hands begin to shake, the thought of alcohol brings me up to the fact that I've had almost nothing to drink today. Calming at the thought of alcohol, I manage to control my breathing, stand, grab my bag and walk out of the white room. 

 

The corridors aren't crowded, the occasional nurse walks up and down the halls, but otherwise, it's silent. I keep my head down, but I can't help myself, and I turn to look into rooms with the doors open. In one, a woman is sobbing over a prone body of a youngish man, her son, I think. Another, where a harried, sorrowful woman stands at a bedside with two little children looking down upon the body of a woman, who looks as if she's fading in and out of consciousness. The last one I look into has a man, who's all alone, staring up at the ceiling. He has ginger hair, and freckles dot the bridge of his nose. He looks disturbingly like Jehan, in fact. But I know he isn't. Jehan wouldn't have been able to keep a secret like this. I pity him; all alone. I have a feeling I'm going to become him one day. I hunch my shoulders, and continue walking. I dare not think of what's behind the closed doors. 

 

I leave the hospital building, into a sunny day with beautiful blue skies. It's a great day, but all the same not good at all. It seems the world is celebrating. The sign behind me says: _Paris General Hospital: Heart Surgery Building_ , and below it is a little plaque. I came in for testing a couple weeks back, because I had chest pain. The ordinary doctors had referred me here, looking very grim. I wanted to ask, _why me?_ but I have a feeling they get that a lot. Anyways, I know the answer. The world is a cruel violent place, where scumbags like me get diseases that they deserve, and the good get the same, like that man that is all alone. 

 

I curl my shoulders tighter, squinting in the bright sunlight, and run to catch a bus that is almost about to leave. I pay my fee, sit on the suspiciously sticky seats, and watch Paris go by. My head rests on the window, my breath creating condensation on it. She's beautiful, vibrant and alive under the lovely skies. Crowds swell and merge under the Eiffel Tower and Arc du Triomphe, cameras flashing like so many stars and the native Parisians move with a subtle beat, and easy grace that shows the innate knowledge of the city. The bus stops in the centre of Paris, and I get off, thanking the bus driver as I go. I pull out a cigarette, light it, and draw a huge breath of smoke, it tickles on the way down. The smoke soothes my worries, and it drifts languidly out of my nostrils, I begin to make my way to the nearest bar, weaving my way through the densely packed square. Even though it's only five in the afternoon, this bar is already pulsing with life. 

 

Sitting down at the bar, I wave my fingers towards the barmaid, she's an attractive, curvy brunette, and she leers at me when she comes over. "Would you like something to drink? Maybe something _else?_ " She puts unnecessary strain on the word 'else', and I think I know what she means, though I usually would take this obvious invitation, but I'm not in the mood tonight.

 

"I'll have a couple of vodka shots," I answer is in a hoarse voice, and she stops leering, with a look of comical disappointment on her face. 

 

"Comin' right up." the barmaid slides the shots towards me, and I catch and drink them. The world fades away as the vodka works it's usual magic, until it's just the alcohol, the barmaid, and me. The music pumps and flows around me, and is almost a living entity in and of itself. At the door to the club, the light of the day fades and dies, until it's just indiscriminate shapes pouring through into the club. Time passes slowly and quickly, and is measured between each shot of vodka, I have no idea what the actual time is. I assume at one point I dance, but then I flop back to the bar, and order another shot. It helps me forget the artery that's blocked, going to end my life soon, and the grim, clinical faces of the doctors as they announced my prognosis. _"No point getting a heart transplant,"_ they said bluntly, "It's too late. The best we can do is to clean up the fatty build in the artery, and hope."

 

 _Hope_ I scoff in my thoughts as I down another shot of vodka and slam it down. Hope is for the naive and the stupid. 

 

At some undetermined point in the night, I hear the familiar voice of Combeferre over my shoulder. "Grantaire? Grantaire? Is that you?" He sounds worried, and I feel guilty and ungrateful at once. I turn and look him straight in the eye. Well, as much as I can, being as drunk as I am. "Thank God it's you. We've been searching everywhere! I need to call Eponine and Bahorel." He takes out his phone and texts furiously, despite saying he was going to call them.

 

"Sorry," I mumble, looking down and unthinkingly clenching my hand around the straps of my bag. Over Combeferre's shoulder, Enjolras stands and his face is dark with righteous anger, and I flinch, thinking his beautiful and terrifying all at once. "C'mon," Combeferre pulls me to my feet with more gentleness then I deserve, and slings one of my arms around his shoulder to hold me up. We exit the club and walk towards Enjolras' car, and I can feel Enjolras' temperature racketing up and up as we walk. 

 

"Why couldn't we have left him there?" Enjolras bursts, and the anger comes flooding out. "He's just being self-destructive, selfish and generally making a nuisance of himself!" Combeferre remains silent, and I know that he agrees, even though he's to kind to voice the statement as plainly as Enjolras is. I don't allow myself the privilege of flinching. "I mean, we've done this so many times, and in so many places! He's a useless, good- for- nothing pessimist!" This time, the mark hits too close to home, and I can't stop myself from flinching and turning my head away. 

 

"Enjolras," Comberferre's voice is a quiet rebuke in the chill night air, and he stops with his tirade, anger draining as he realizes he might have gone too far. I'm empty. 

 

We reach the car, and Combeferre lays me gently on the back seat, and then climbs into the passenger side door in the front. "Take me to my apartment, please." The askance comes like a garbled sigh. 

 

"Fine," fumes Enjolras, and he turns an there is a glint of worry in his eyes that even I can't deny. "We'll take you there."

 

The car engine purrs to life, and the seat begins to vibrate underneath my cheek. In the soft darkness of the car, I realize I have to fight to stay alive, not for me, but for the worry in Enjolras' eyes, as well as Eponine and Gavroche, the latter would be crushed if I died, although I find no reason why they would be. The former, however, I'm not so sure about. 

 

But I'll fight, I'll try. It's all I can give.

**Author's Note:**

> pt 1 all done! there will be a next part, although I'm not too sure when it'll come


End file.
